“Give it twenty,” I say.
I remain in the car and stare into space while the boy smears dirty water over my windshield. As he wipes the window clean, a smiling blonde woman moves into my line of sight. I shake my head to see whether I’m actually seeing this correctly, but yes! It’s her. It’s really her—that selfish woman who’s responsible for killing my husband!
At first, I tell myself it’s just a sick, twisted trick I’m playing on myself. It’s not really her. It can’t possibly be; and yet I continue to watch her, like she’s an actress in my favorite Netflix series. She’s speaking to a gentleman in a suit, smiling widely at him before handing him a paper from the stack in her black leather folder. She shakes his hand and twirls away.
The second she disappears around the corner of the building, the man crumples the small paper into a ball and tosses it into the overflowing trash can next to him. I wait for him to go inside the gas station, and then frantically scramble out of my car and across the parking lot to hunt down that note. I retrieve the crumpled paper and stuff it in the pocket of my oversized pants, ignoring the boy calling out to me from the pump.
I consider chasing the woman down. I would love to run her over with my car. Wouldn’t that be ironic? My lips curl upwards for the first time since Zayne and my baby passed. Crafting this woman’s demise gives me great pleasure, and revenge would be so sweet. A light bulb moment has the smile quivering on my face. My lips don’t know what’s happening to them.
Hurrying back to my car, I reach into my purse and toss the pump attendant a twenty. The kid looks confused when the bill floats like a feather to the pavement because he’s still pumping gas into my car’s tank. His shock continues when I turn on the car and pull away, spilling gas all over his shoes.
I wave at him in my rear-view mirror and flatten the paper atop my lap, as I drive toward my house.
Congratulations, Marissa Meyers.
According to this invitation, the uppity bitch is up for a promotion. She has a party coming up next weekend at one of the most beautiful and sophisticated hotspots in New York.
Isn’t her life just perfect?
This feels like a gift handed to me from the heavens. Who knew revenge could be delivered up to me in such a neat little package? I’ve heard that the door to that party room is always tighter than tight, but there has to be a way for me to get in.
My tires squeal as I turn into my driveway, my car screeching to a halt. I race into the house and find the cell phone that I had turned off for the better part of a year. First, I log in as a guest on the neighbor’s unlocked Wi-Fi, and then I Google the event. Before long, I’ve scribbled down a list of the high-profile gentlemen attending. I’m sure one of them can use a piece of arm candy for the evening.
I open up the garage, pull out the riding lawn mower, and fire that bitch up. I pull down the lever that controls the blades, and step on the gas pedal. While I clean up my yard, I remember just how good I can look if I try. I know that if I keep exercising, put on a little weight, and maybe get a tan, I can pull off young and healthy. I’ve got two weeks to make it happen. My favorite part: they’ll never see me coming.
Within an hour, my yard looks clean, and I’m scheduled for a waxing appointment. I admit I’m well overdue for a haircut. I take a quick shower and dress for the day. With towel-dried hair, I walk outside and down the sidewalk toward the nearest beauty salon. I’m a few steps away from my destination when I realize what I’ve just done. My feet become glued to the pavement. A wild, orange cat stares at me from its perch on the windowsill of the storefront, like I’m brainless.
This is the first time I’ve set foot on this sidewalk since the accident, and this cat seems to be the only one who cares. My eyes zero in on the spot up the road. A deep breath slows my racing heart.
You’ve come this far already.
Reminding myself of Marissa Meyers’ smiling face, I push through the front doors of the salon and demand a makeover. They don’t disappoint. Believe it or not, there’s a pretty woman hiding behind all my overgrown hair and downturned lips. The woman at the salon with wild, purple hair and a contagious smile has the most fun, giving me a hairstyle that’ll pull all my hard work together.
When I return to my house, I stop to have a look at myself in the front mirror. My eyes widen at the sight. I look like a frigging rock star. I flip my hair over my shoulder and try to smile, again. It hurts at first, but I feel my muscles responding to the new movement. My mouth is so shaky; it’s ridiculous. I’ll have to practice it some more if I plan to pull it out again any time soon.
By the time the night of the party arrives, I’ve nailed the city diva look with a seductive smile, glossy hair, and dark-painted eyes. I’ve snagged myself a wealthy, old man from the high-class pub up the road. He’s agreed to take me out to an extravagant meal if I agree to attend an exclusive party—Marissa Meyers’ promotion party—with him. No one knows about any ulterior motives spinning around in my head. They all believe I’m planning to take this old fart for everything he’s worth, which is a given, but there are a handful of other gold diggers present with similar motives.
Old man Marshall escorts me to the snooty party and waves at a few guests who stare at his new arm candy. They have no clue what I’m really up to. Neither does Marshall. I don’t expect he will even notice when I survey the room, but my senses are unpracticed, and I underestimate how many eyes are on me.
“Looking for someone, Clarita?”
I turn to face him and smooth my fingers over his tie, flattening it against his rounded body. “What are you talking about?” I slap at him playfully. “I don’t know another soul here. Only you, Marshall.”
He clearly likes it that way. He’s proud to have me on his arm, a good thirty years his junior.
“Why don’t we try to fix that?” He offers me his elbow and I take it, following him dutifully to a crowd of slightly younger men with stick-thin models on their arms.
“Jasper Nix, please meet Clarita Black.”
I accept the gentleman’s hand and allow him to kiss mine.
“Oh,” I say, as if this pleasantly shocks me, while the woman next to Mr. Nix stirs with jealousy. I smile at the poor thing.
You can have him.
Marshall continues with the introductions. The more fake smiles and superficial introductions I survive, the closer I get to the bottom of my rainbow. Marissa Meyers is now close enough that I can almost stretch my arms out and strangle her with my bare hands. I see how happy the bitch is. She doesn’t deserve it. It’s as if nothing’s happened to her. Her life is the same as it was one year ago. Wait, no. She appears to be doing better now than she was a year ago. It’s like she’s forgotten entirely about what she’s done. That changes today.
Time to make her remember.
My eyes light up when I see her move toward the restroom. Now’s my chance to approach her. I smile at my wealthy sponsor and smooth my hand up and down his arm before turning to the group of fuddy-duddy businessmen. “Please excuse me.” I pat Marshall’s chest, knowing no one expects anything more of me than to stand around and look pretty. “I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t keep me waiting.”
I flash a seductive glance back at him, that has all the men mumbling, and then I refocus on the reason for my escape. I stalk across the floor in four inch heels, drawing every man’s eye within a twenty foot radius. Following this woman’s daily life has become a sick ritual that I obsess over every waking minute. My limbs tremble with excitement now that I get to make my first contact.
I follow her into the women’s restroom and check over my shoulder to make sure no one is behind me. The lock slides quietly into place, until a woman approaches me from the sinks.
“Wait for me,” she cheers, hurrying to the door.
I suck in a breath, let the woman out of the room with a practiced smile, and then relock the door. When I peer around the corner, she’s there—the bitch who ruined my life.
<
br /> I try to find something wrong with this woman, but everything appears to be so picture-perfect for her. Her face is flawless, not a hair misplaced on her head, and her dress is obviously the result of a well-paid tailor. The skirt cuts off just below her knees and fits her like a glove. I wonder how she even walks in those tall, skinny heels.
Our eyes finally meet in the mirror, of all places. I’m applying another coat of my ruby red lipstick. She surely doesn’t recognize me as the woman whose married life she ended.
“I like your shoes,” I say, wishing I could think of something more clever to say after all this time.
“Thanks,” she replies with a smile. She glances at my shoes, looking for a compliment to repay me, but hesitates.
Bitch.
“Who’s that guy you’re here with?” I ask, hoping maybe that will be the spark to jumpstart the conversation. Her husband is a good-looking man, clearly successful, and unmistakably younger than her.
“Who, Jase? Oh, he’s my husband. A waste of space, if you ask me, but that doesn’t leave this room,” she adds, smirking.
Bam. That’s the statement I needed to hear in order to set this friendship off on the right foot.
“It can’t be all that bad,” I say.
As I listen to the woman’s rendition of her horrible life, I realize the pretty picture she paints for the public is far from the truth. I save my smile and nod to acknowledge what she’s saying, even if I don’t agree with her self-centered issues and superficial troubles.
“Hey, at least he tends to the kids,” she says, making it so much easier for me to do this to her.
When we move to exit the restroom, I delicately unlock the door and act shocked to see a line of ladies outside of it. I shrug my shoulders at Marissa and return to the party with her. Her husband snares my gaze from afar. He smiles that charming smile and walks toward us.
“Who is this beauty you’ve been hiding from me, Marissa?”
He takes my hand and sinks into my eyes. He obviously doesn’t recognize me, either. Had neither of them picked up a newspaper after the accident? Our faces were plastered all over it for weeks.
I smile back at him, thinking dirty thoughts about how I’m going to rip these two apart for good. I can’t wait to make a public spectacle of them.
“Oh, you know what? How rude of me! I didn’t even ask your name,” Marissa chimes, using drama to tear her husband’s eyes from mine.
“Clarrr—rita. Clarita,” I say, nearly blowing my cover for the second time tonight.
Jase shakes my hand. “Well, Clarrr-rita,” he says, emphasizing my name. “I hope to see you again sometime real soon.”
“Yes. Absolutely,” I say, admiring the way he admits his attraction to me in front of his wife.
“I’m Marissa,” his wife adds, slipping in between us. “But I’m sure you already knew that.”
Her high-pitched laugh gives me goosebumps, and I just barely shed my scowl in time to return a smile as Marshall scoops me away for the rest of the evening.
23: My Best Shot
The night couldn’t have gone any better. My revenge will be sweet. Marissa Meyers’ secret life will soon become a public exhibition. After meeting Jase, I realize I might even enjoy this. A total waste? We’ll see about that. He puts a handsome smile on for the socialites, but I doubt they know all the names his wife calls him behind closed doors. They will soon.
First, I have to figure out whether he’s sticking around for the money, or if he’s keeping it together for their kids—an honorable thing to do, I suppose. I have different plans for him. Frankly, nothing else matters. I only get this one shot to destroy this woman’s life, and I’m going to make for damn sure that I get it right.
A few days later, wearing skinny jeans and heels, with a loose-fitted grey tank top and a black bandeau, I attack my unavailable man. Why am I doing this? His wife deserves to live the hell that I’m living—to see what’s it’s like to be me.
This is going to be a cake walk. Jase frequents the park a few blocks away from where I live. He’s watching his kids, so I keep it short and innocent. I cross the deep green grass and rest against the bench he’s sitting on. I stop just long enough for small talk, seeing that he’s overtired.
“Hey, you. Long day?”
He sighs, glancing up at me. He does a double take before recognizing me from the other night. “You have no idea.”
I smile. “Why don’t you tell me?”
That gets his attention, causing him to stand up, but he doesn’t spill all the beans at once. With his hands tucked in his pockets, I quickly learn that I’m going to have to earn his trust before he opens himself up more to me.
A few days later, I run into him again, not so accidentally, at a small restaurant I know he likes to visit at this time of day.
“Hey,” I say when he walks up behind me. “Funny seeing you here.” It’s only my third visit to the cash register this morning, but of course he doesn’t know that.
“Let me get that for you.” He pays for my coffee and we leave together.
I give him a few minutes of small talk and he ushers me away from the foot traffic, telling me about the private, but dirty, court battle with his wife.
“You can’t tell anyone this. I’m trusting you, Clarita.”
Trust is such a fragile thing. He would be wise not to trust anyone—especially not me.
“I know I can’t keep up like this for much longer. There’s only so much a guy can take.”
Big surprise—the witch is trying to flush him down the toilet. It’s no wonder her attitude has been grating on his nerves. I can’t believe he’s agreed to stay in the house and act like nothing’s wrong for publicity’s sake.
“You’re a good man,” I say.
Jase huffs. “It’s all for my boys. Marissa can go fuck herself.”
I laugh softly, and the sound is magnificent, but I quickly hide my joy when I notice how all this lying to his kids has been piling up on his conscience. It looks like he can use some relief. I happen to specialize in that department.
Jase takes a sip from his coffee and sighs. “I quit my job and gave up everything for her. I left my family behind to start a new life with her here in the city. She went out and found a new group of friends, but to be honest I have none.”
“You have me,” I say, catching on to his hand and connecting with his eyes.
For a second, my own conscience threatens to test my nerve, but then Jase sighs again and turns the problems back on himself.
“I’m sorry. I’m sure listening to my boring life is the last thing a beauty like you wants to do with her day.”
“You stop it. You’re fine.” I release his hand before it gets awkward. Playing hard to get has never felt this fulfilling.
“What do you say I make it up to you?” he asks.
That’s what I’m talking about!
But before he can spit it out, I say, “Another time? I have to run.”
I make a mad dash for the sidewalk, very pleased with today’s progress, even if being hit with a dose of reality doesn’t feel nice at all. It won’t be long now. The stage is set. I thought it’d take more time to earn his trust, but I think I’ve got this one in the bag.
I leave Jase alone for a few days, knowing I’ll stay fresh on his mind the entire time, but this alone-time is dangerous. It gives me too much time to curl up in a ball, get all red-faced, and fret. On day three, I’m all worried-out and a little too stir-crazy to wait any longer. This will work. It has to.
If I can’t be happy, no one can.
Heading off on foot, I pop in a piece of cool mint gum and sling my purse across my chest. I know exactly where I’m heading. I plan to strike where Jase is at his weakest—while he’s at the playground with his sons. It’s my best shot.
24: Revenge is Sweet
The sun is hot, and the excitement coursing through me doesn’t make the heat any more bearable. The sound of whiny kids is music to my ears
when I start down the winding path toward the kiddy equipment. Sure enough, Jase is there—just as scheduled.
I zero in on my target and make a beeline for him, holding my sandals in my right hand. The long grass whispers across my toes. The breeze flips my hair back, exposing rosy cheeks. I can’t wipe the undeniably pleasant smile from my face. No one can spoil this moment for me.
Look at him! I still can’t believe he’s a house-husband; it’s obvious it’s not by choice. To the unsuspecting passersby, Jase looks like an intelligent, well-mannered businessman, raising his children on his own. It’s unfortunate that I have to destroy his life completely and make that a reality. The poor thing is wasted, anyways. I believe his wife called him a waste of space. The only thing I see is a man wasting away due to lack of use.
A good, strong man like that could always use a little extracurricular activity in his life, and I doubt he’s getting any from his perfect little soon-to-be ex-wife.
I approach him with determination in my step, ready to make my move. I know I have psychological issues—that doing this to him isn’t quite right—but I refuse to be the only one who suffers here. I am going to take what I can get and ruin this family in the process. I slide up next to where Jase has just barely settled. When he smiles, I know he isn’t totally lost. It looks like he hasn’t done that in a long time, though.
“Smiling shouldn’t be a hidden talent for you,” I say.
His eyes meet mine. “I could say the same to you.”
I hide my fear—the fear that he sees right through me—with facts. The fact is he has two things I don’t: money and family. From what I hear, any combination of those two things tends to make people happy. Having barely scraped by on my own two feet for the better part of my life, I don’t have enough experience in the matter to fully comprehend this guy’s problems, but I’d be willing to bet it’s all his wife’s fault.
I take the seat next to him on the blue aluminum bench. I know it’s a dumb question, because I know the answer, but I ask anyway. “Come here often?” The change of conversation works like a charm.
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